


Made to Stray

by mytimehaspassed



Series: Made to Stray Verse [1]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, F/M, M/M, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-04-21
Packaged: 2017-12-09 01:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/768503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the first album, Ray relents to the obligatory dress blues cover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Made to Stray

**MADE TO STRAY**  
GENERATION KILL  
Brad/Ray; Ray/Walt; Ray/OMC; Ray/OFC  
 **WARNINGS** : Band!AU; mention of drug usage  
 **NOTES** : Fic prompt courtesy of [colbertesque](http://colbertesque.tumblr.com/). Thank you, bb!

  
For the first album, Ray relents to the obligatory dress blues cover.

They are named, after all, Generation Kill, their manager says behind his sunglasses. He’s aging, wears hipster dad attire like he was born for it, writing small, unintelligible words in his notebook that his ruthlessly flamboyant assistant will later flail over, squinting his eyes and snapping his fingers and deliberating about the changes to the rider and how much – logistically speaking – blood, sweat, and tears he will now be shedding.

They’re each given a set of impeccable costumes, and Trombley snorts and says something about how this is just like in the commercials, waving the – really realistic – sword at Walt, who ducks and yells his name like it’s an insult, his left leg stuck in one half of the suit pants. Ray accidentally burns a hole in his as he’s changing, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, and that sets Trombley off – ripping the sleeves off of his jacket in one long pull, the loud tear of fabric making their manager wince in the dressing room.

Ray says, “Jesus,” and takes the cigarette from his mouth, stamping it down on his suit-clad thigh.

***

With the camera snapping pictures – cold, clinical, heartless – they’re each doused with a bucket of corn syrup and red food dye.

“Generation KILL,” their manager says from behind the photographer, infuriatingly clean, his thumbs moving double time on the keyboard of his iPhone.

Walt rubs his wet nose against Ray’s neck and that one makes the liner notes, Ray’s wide smile and Trombley holding his sword over his head like a medieval knight.

***

They complete a modest tour of Europe, a larger one in the States that snakes around the country selling out clubs. They play some indie festivals and don’t really fit in with the line-up’s other bands: sweater-clad, curly-haired boys and girls with non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses and soft, un-calloused fingers.

They try opening for a couple of big alternative bands, ducking projectile vomit and empty plastic cups, but their manager tells them, his focus on the phone in front of him, that they should really branch out more – start leaking some songs on the internet, start selling some outrageous rumors, start ranting about government conspiracies on Twitter.

They get some decent play on satellite radio, get to spend a few afternoons in Texas in the middle of South By Southwest, where Ray burns like a tomato in the sun and Walt plays a stripped down version of two of their most recent singles for a couple of pretty girls who record him and Ray’s shitty, unrestrained voice to post on their blog.

They grow and grow and grow and suddenly they’re everywhere, in commercials for shaving cream and playing the soundtrack for a primetime teen drama and on every fucking radio station that Ray chooses when he drives, singing along to his own voice at the top of his lungs.

***

The second album is harsher, less forgiving, and Ray spends weeks on a Ripped Fuel bender writing, writing, writing, his hands scarred with ink and unfiltered coffee grounds and what’s left of his drugs. He pours everything into his words and when he gives it to Walt and Trombley, both of them looking at him like they want to ask if he’s okay, he’s a little shy, a little raw, filleted open from his neck down.

Trombley sits behind the drum kit and stares at the printed out pages, the black ink there, and lets out a, “Fuck.”

Walt doesn’t say anything, and then smiles, open, wide, honest. “We’re going to be fucking rich,” he says, and Ray feels every muscle in his body let go, relax.

***

The photographer their manager hires for the second album is tall and blonde and gorgeous. Ray stares at him for two seconds before he decides to immediately hate him, curling his lip in disgust as he makes Walt smile with a joke that he tells out of the corner of his mouth.

Trombley asks, “Do we get guns this time?” and their manager looks frightened for an instant, Ray can see him totaling the cost of damages in his head, before the photographer jumps in, his hand held out like a peace offering.

“Actually,” he says, looking at Ray and smiling, smiling, smiling. “I thought we’d do a simpler cover for this one.”

He had introduced himself as Brad – just Brad, like he was famous or something – and when Ray had shook his hand, it had been warm and rough and strong, and Ray had felt that familiar tingle in his belly, that fire that hadn’t lit up since the last few times he had had break-up sex with his ex-girlfriend back home, since the time before that when he had had a brief, intimate fling with Walt after they both decided to quit school and pursue music full time.

“We can do some one-on-one shots,” Brad says, “So I can get to know you guys better. And then maybe we can do the whole band.”

Their manager looks visibly relieved, clapping his hands together loudly, physically startling his frazzled assistant beside him. “Sounds great,” he says, and Ray catches Walt’s gaze and mimics shooting himself in the temple.

***

Brad sits with him first, asks to see where he lives and Ray gives him the address of his apartment in Brooklyn, doesn’t bother throwing away the empty pizza boxes or Chinese takeout containers, doesn’t move the pile of clothes on the couch to the laundry basket, doesn’t put away the pack of condoms still sitting on his nightstand.

After the initial tour of the place, Brad points to the condoms and says, “Expecting company?”

And just to be a dick, Ray says, “Just you, sweetheart,” winking obscenely.

Brad raises an eyebrow and takes a picture, the unmade bed and empty bottle of beer rolled to a stop against Ray’s lamp, Ray’s open bottle of Lorezepam, and says, “We can put that one on the back cover, if you want.”

Ray holds up his middle finger, and Brad takes a picture of that, too.

***

They go to Starbucks for coffee, Ray ordering something with more than four syllables and Brad picking dollars clean out of his wallet, his hand on Ray’s tattooed arm when Ray goes to pay.

Brad sits with his back to the door and asks him questions about his life, and Ray tells him a little from column a, a little from column b, most of what’s been in his bio since he and Walt started making music in Walt’s mother’s basement, but he leaves out whole periods, the fading and tattoo-covered track marks on his arms, the scars on his face, the way he had left his family without ever saying goodbye.

This isn’t an interview, they both know that, so Brad lets the omissions slide, thumbing the lid of his black coffee like he wants to know more, but won’t let himself ask the tough questions.

Brad asks about Walt and about Trombley and Ray says horrible, mean-spirited things about both before getting this goofy, proud grin and calling them his family. Brad says he wants to take a picture of that face, that look, but Ray won’t let him pull his camera out of the bag, his hand on Brad’s, warm, stern.

A fan interrupts them when Ray’s got his second latte halfway to his mouth, the kid’s black eyeliner and painted nails, and Ray does the friendly image thing and smiles, signing the edge of his Starbucks napkin when the boy asks him to.

He sees the flash in his peripheral, but he never mentions it to Brad.

***

They climb the exhausting staircase to the roof of Ray’s building to catch the light of the setting sun, Brad setting up his tripod and camera and pointing it at Ray unapologetically.

It’s uncomfortable and Ray’s impatient at first, bouncing his legs and talking nervously, swinging his arms wide. He doesn’t talk about anything in particular, his usual rants about bedroom bands and the ridiculously named subgenres of indie – “What the fuck is a chillwave?” he asks, Brad catching a photo of Ray and white, crooked teeth, his palms outstretched – until Brad asks him to stop moving for a sec, to stay still and just smile.

Ray scowls and Brad takes a perfect picture of that, but then Ray leans back against the railing, turning his face away, his neck one, long twisted column, and it’s nothing but pale, scarred skin and the dark ink of tattoos, and Brad calls his name a couple times, says, “Cheese, motherfucker,” before he finally gives up, the sun following suit and dying behind Ray.

Brad takes a break to turn on a few of the lights he brought with him, watching the buildings across Brooklyn slowly, slowly come to life, and Ray goes back to being restless, to talking like he’s on speed, watching Brad watch him through the lens, trying to map out the right angles.

Ray says, abruptly, “What do you know about music anyway? I thought I heard you tell Trombley that you liked Air Supply.”

Brad feigns indignation for a moment, saying, “Hey, they had some classics,” his straight face between them, and Ray can’t tell if he’s joking until Brad smiles, irresistible, infectious, and Ray smiles, too.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess they’re okay.”

***

Brad’s picture of Ray is in front of a cloud of lights, smiling wide, his chin up, his eyes bright.

***

Brad lets Ray take him back to his apartment, their hands held tight together, palm to palm, and they fuck on Ray’s dirty, unmade bed.

Brad bites down hard on Ray’s neck, on Ray’s shoulder, and Ray leaves scratches on Brad’s long back, the surprising tattoo there, colorful and alive beneath Ray’s fingers. They’re wild and unrelenting, Ray mouthing Brad’s tan skin until it’s red and hot, until Brad hisses between his teeth at Ray’s touch.

Ray keeps saying fuck again and again and again, mumbling it in Brad’s mouth and under Brad’s hands and above Brad’s thighs.

Brad says nothing, his fingers pulling hard on Ray’s hair.

***

Ray wakes up without Brad, but doesn’t think about it, doesn’t text the number Brad had thumbed into Ray’s phone the night before, doesn’t want to ask their manager to ask him if he could see him again because it’s too much like passing notes in the seventh grade, too desperate, too needy.

He writes some songs and throws them out, writes some more and crosses out lines, writes them back in, crosses them out again. He takes some Ripped Fuel and regrets it, spends the day hunched over the toilet trying to make himself throw up.

He thinks about Brad when he’s in the shower and jerks off, does it again when he’s alone in bed, remembering Brad’s hands on him and his hands on Brad.

***

Brad calls him and asks him if he could come over.

Ray is silent for a moment, contemplative, and then his dick speaks up. “Sure,” he says, easy.

They fuck again, against Ray’s living room window, Ray’s palms flat on the glass. And then again in the shower the next morning, Brad leaning his head on the wall, the water sluicing down his neck, Ray licking every inch of him.

When he turns to go, Brad kisses him rough and hard and doesn’t ever say goodbye.

***

He tells Walt about Brad the next time Walt comes over, slinging his legs over Ray’s on the couch and reading Netflix descriptions out loud, eating most of Ray’s popcorn with salty, slippery fingers. Walt looks at him for a moment, scrunches up his nose like he wants to say something but doesn’t want to be a dick, and Ray narrows his eyes and says, “What?”

Walt catches his bottom lip with his teeth and makes a face. “I didn’t realize that I was getting your sloppy seconds.”

Ray rolls his eyes first, before it really sinks in. “Wait, what? Did you sleep with Brad?”

“Yeah,” Walt says, his hand in the popcorn bowl on Ray’s lap. “After our one-on-one. But he didn’t say anything about you.” Walt places two warm fingers on Ray’s cheek. “You know how I feel about that.”

Ray thinks he can feel his heart actually stop beating, feel the blood stop, shock still, in his veins, feel his pulse hum slower and slower and slower until, finally, not at all. “Yeah,” he hears himself say distantly. “Yeah, I know how you feel about that.”

Walt gives him a kiss then, gentle, sweet, but Ray doesn’t kiss back.

***

They meet for the group shot and Brad smiles slyly at Ray, his hands reaching out to touch him, and Ray moves back, busies himself with filling a Styrofoam cup with the shitty coffee that their manager’s assistant placed out on the long craft service table at the studio. Brad’s smile hesitates and falls, and Walt slides his eyes from Ray to Brad and then back to Ray again and he coughs awkwardly, his face shuttered and swollen with regret.

Trombley starts hitting the drums, and Walt picks up a guitar, and Ray stands there and breathes, one two three, one two three, as Brad sets his camera on a tripod and then thinks better of it, picking it up, holding it to his face. He snaps a few shots of them fucking around, expensive-suited label guys milling around behind them, their manager talking on the phone, the assistant arguing with his boyfriend who stood quiet and smiley when he had asked Walt and then Trombley and then Ray for their autographs – Ray had called out, “Fucking Trombley before me? TROMBLEY?” and Walt had given him a look and Trombley had hit the cymbals louder than he should have, but Ray was in it, Ray was in the zone, and fucking with his bandmates was something he was really, really good at – Brad’s team of wafer-thin assistants adding makeup to Walt’s beautiful face, buttoning Ray’s shirt just one more button to hide the bold stripes of the only tattoo he has ever regretted (an ex-boyfriend’s name that was added on a night when Ray was a little too dunk and a lot fucked up from the heroin his boyfriend had slid him like a Christmas present).

They have their instruments and they have several backgrounds to choose from, cheesy, school picture day ones if they really want to attract the crowd of irony-obsessed college kids, and Brad snaps and snaps and snaps and Ray picks up a microphone and swings it once like he does on stage, swings it again dangerously close to Brad’s shiny, expensive camera and Brad clears his throat and calls production to a halt for a moment, asks Ray if he could step outside for a bit.

“No, thanks,” Ray says at first, his smile harsh, his voice cutting.

“Ray,” Brad says, and then Walt, who puts a hand on Ray’s arm, says his name too, concerned.

“Fine,” Ray grits between his teeth, following the long line of Brad’s back out the door. “Although I don’t really want to hear what you have to say,” he says after the door closes behind them.

Brad sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, a crease there like he’s done exactly that so many times before. “I must have missed the point where we decided to become exclusive,” he says, and Ray thinks he might punch him.

“I don’t mind you fucking other people,” Ray says. “I mind you fucking Walt.”

Brad opens his mouth, a tiny little o, realization dawning on his face. “You and Walt,” he says, like he’s just found the answer to every mystery of the universe. “I should have seen that coming.”

Ray looks up at the sky for a moment. He can feel the coffee thrumming through his veins; can feel the vestiges of last night’s Ripped Fuel. “You’re a fucking idiot,” he says. “Walt and I are best friends. We tried a thing once and it didn’t work.” Brad looks confused now. “We love each other, but we’re not in love with each other, okay?”

Brad shakes his head, “So, why…?”

“Because, you asshole,” Ray says, “Walt is my best fucking friend and we have been through a lot together and sometimes he is a really fragile fucking person, okay, so if you are fucking him, you are not fucking me.” He slaps his palm on Brad’s arm, watches the red bloom on Brad’s skin. “You have to choose, motherfucker.”

“Oh,” Brad says, his mouth opening and then closing and then opening again. “Oh.”

Ray turns around to open the door again, pulling on the handle and feeling the push of recycled air greet him, before Brad puts a hand on the door to close it. His front is dangerously close to Ray’s back and Ray turns around, leans back against the door, his mouth so close to Brad’s mouth. “What?” he says, annoyed, his eyes on Brad’s lips.

Brad smiles. “Oh,” he says again, and Ray really is going to punch him now, moving his fist back, but Brad stops him, his mouth on Ray’s mouth.

“You, you idiot,” and Brad’s biting Ray’s bottom lip, his arms gripping Ray’s arms, pulling him tight against his chest, pulling him closer. “I choose you.”

“Oh,” Ray says, and closes his eyes against Brad’s touch.

***

The photo is simple and understated and gorgeous, the photo that all of the music magazines and blogs choose for their review column: Trombley holding his drumsticks like a badass, his face furrowed in concentration, alive, Walt’s fingers on the guitar and his lips close to the extra microphone, his face sweet and gentle and perfect, and Ray, Ray with his mouth wide and open and loud, his gaze staring straight into the camera, behind the camera, his face lit up just for Brad.


End file.
